that were the results of a challenge over at lit. The subjects rotate every ten fics, with the tenth person calling the next prompt.
Some of them I was not able to limit myself to 100 words. I’ve gotten better with practice…
Ratings; G to R, non-explicit sexual situations.
Mad Morgan Speaks;
T’was a nasty little ditty that I used to sing for thrown coins; “For to see Bad Tom in Bedlam, five hundred miles I travel,” and sometimes it gave me the shivers to sing it; but the public liked it well enough. It weren’t till I got a bit older that I learned how Bad Tom was still about. If you say a thing long enough it’ll come looking for you, and the thing that lived in those weird words, the thumping little tamborine, my sister’s penny-whistle — well, it lives in me still.
Bedlam boys are bonny…
She was always drawing; complicated swirly designs, mapping out (I fancied) the contours of her mind. I’d find papers covered with blue inked mazes and know she’d been there. She incised them in sand, in spilled liquor on the bar table. Her fingers traced them into my skin. I can still see them, I swear. When the light is just right.
There’s something about watching a new pupil discover it all; the motion, the quiver, the silky wetness that covers her hands.
“Ah, yeah, be gentle, but remember you’re the boss here…” The mounding, rising, under her touch. I was treated to her infectious smile at her success.
“Push in- both thumbs, don’t be afraid.” She mastered her hesitancy, forced her entrance. “Pull it open, open darling, that’s it…” the rhythmic hum faltered, and she lost concentration; her first vase fell back on the potter’s wheel.
Leslie cursed, laughed, and reached for a new lump of clay.
“Jesus!” Chris ran into the livingroom; “Val, what happened? What was that sound?”
“Care for a drink?” Val untangled her long legs and poured a deep red wine into the Waterford. He took it, bemused, and watched her pour one for herself. He returned her raised salute, and sniffed the bouquet.
“This is the….”
“Yeah, it’s the bottle my dad gave us, remember?”
“We were supposed to save it for our fiftieth anniversary.”
“There won’t be one.” Val drained her glass and hurled it into the fireplace, where its shards joined the fragments of her previous crystal missile.
Bedding someone new is often a careful and cautious thing for lesbians, but this night seemed unusually shaky. Chris and I had kissed during the movie and talked at dinner. Now I sat on her sofa and noted her wariness. She’d had so little trouble telling me her fantasy- but that look in her eyes warned me against starting anything just yet.
And then she brought out her ferret to meet me, and in playing with the vivid little creature, her laughing and leaning against my shoulder, she found a way to trust me. The animal liked me, you see.
The dressing room mirror showed me the sleek dandy I had become. A panther prowled in the glass. The dull black hose molded itself to each muscle in my legs. The surcoat was velvet, doubly black for the deep pile. The white lining of the black muslin shirt’s slashed sleeves called prettily to the ermine edging of the black velvet cap. Black leather for my boots, belt and codpiece. I was an obsession in black. My mistress came up behind me.
“Marry, a pretty man he are,” she purred against my shoulder, “Thy garb doth become thee, Moll my pet.”
Love changes in this weather. When it’s too hot for the entangling sheets, and the sweat between us threatens to slick us apart- as if, in the slip-and-slide, I might slide away from her. When the mattress is as warm as the wide-open-window’s feeble breeze, so that I feel weightless in lust– lust feels weightless– I need her to pin me down, and so I pull her atop me while she laughs and complains about the heat and my sweat, and wanting a shower– but I won’t let her lose me, I won’t lose her, to this devious summer heat.
She crossed her arms and glared at me. “You’re crazy.”
“Come on, baby, it’s easy, just let me show you how.” I shrugged my shoulders to make the feathers rustle and shiver into place.
“I. Can. Not. Fly.” she said. “No wings, none. See?”
Her wings stretched high over her back. I couldn’t think why she’d want to lie to me.
“Just watch, love,” I said, and ran for the cliff edge. I caught an updraft and wheeled over her, suddenly so far below me.
The joy of flight overcame me and I left her there. I was so young.
You– you fuckin’ Republican!”
“Dem,” I returned in as insulting a manner as I could– given that we were both stark naked, drenched and begrimed, there wasn’t much fire in my calumny
“I really hate you guys, you know.” Lisa pushed her muddy hair out of her face, and her blue eyes widened as I lunged at her. I bore her down into the slough while she shrieked.
A flying hand delivered a mouthful of mud. Spitting it out took a moment: when I could speak again, I said; “But you love this guy,” and she kissed me in agreement.
C’mon, show me,” he whispered. “Show me real magic.”
“Tricks, foolery,” Van scoffed, “Legerdemain.” De Seult shook his head, ran a thumb down Van’s flank.
“No, that’s not so, I know.”
“Damn. All right.” Van spread his hands. De Seult’s body lifted with Van’s lifting palms. He groaned, twisting in midair, turned his head to see the distance below him, flashed a thrilled look Van’s way. The tense muscles of his stomach, the lush arse– infused with sensation, Van knew, succubi hands on him, in him. Pleading, releasing; panting.
Van let him down.
“Tricks, foolery, legerdemain.”
“Ahhh. Yes, real magic.”